The dry day draws its end within a sinful, starless night.
-Life in Las Vegas

Words that aren't mine

Isn't it a strange thing to think that every book ever published -every story ever written, every essay ever eked out, every song lyric sappy poem silly rhyme and gushing love note ever left on paper, parchment, wood, or cloth- is just a different combination of 26 letters and assorted simple punctuation?

The basic building blocks of language are the same, be it a Shakespearean sonnet or a Hallmark card.

So how can I call any of these words mine?

In her own skin

"Alayna, do you think I'm fat?"

I stop whatever I was doing at the bathroom sink to stare at her reflection in the mirror. I call her "little Melissa" because she's my little sister... but also because there are a lot of other Melissa's in my life and I needed a way to keep them straight. To be honest, the nick-name doesn't really fit. She's already far taller than any of us were at her age (and we've never been 'short'), and it's even more apparent as she stands in mock nonchalance by the door frame.  

I have to answer her question, I know that, but I'm hesitant. I know that what I say in this moment -whatever my answer to her question is- could follow her through her life. That's just how girls work. I knew a girl of average weight and build (honestly, she might even be considered thin) who was insecure and self-conscious all through her tween and mid-teen years just because her family members teased her about being fat. I don't think that they were ever serious, but it didn't matter. The damage was done. 

I keep my breathing steady, trying hard not to let her see any extra hesitance or tension in my manner. You see, I never learned how to say something like this to a ten year old girl.

After the pause of another nervous moment, I say, "I think you are growing" in a voice so casual it borders on boredom. 

And really, it's true. It used to be that she wasn't very 'size conscious.' If a pair of my shorts ended up in her laundry basket, she'd don a belt and wear them around as Capris without being any the wiser. I guess those days are gone. I won't miss her days of poor fashion sense -packing her clothes myself when we went on trips because I knew what matched and fit her better than she did- but it's another phase of childhood that she's growing out of. And I remember it, too. I remember when I thought wildly patterned shorts with matching tops were the coolest things ever and that yellow socks completed every outfit. But eventually we all have to grow up and learn the ways of the world. Its just coming up a little quickly on me. 

She's still standing there in the doorway. Her dark hair -so different from my own- frames her young face and her recently cut bangs form a harsh line in the middle of her forehead. Her dark eyes -brown like mine were when I was young- are still trained on mine, so I know I have to say something else. I mean, I guess she has that 'childhood pudge' but she's also wearing training bras now... though I don't feel the need to mention that. Oh well, here goes nothing.

"Honey, there are a lot of different body types, none of them are 'right' and none of them are 'wrong,' and it doesn't really matter. Sometimes you can't control it, and most of the time, that's ok." I'm grasping at philosophical straws, and I know it. But I hope that somewhere in my pile of words, she can hear the needle of truth: You are a daughter of a loving Heavenly Father. He created you in His image. Your body is a Temple for your beautiful soul, and it's what's on the inside that counts. 

Be comfortable in your own skin. It doesn't matter what I think, or what anyone else says. Accept yourself and your body for the miracle that they really are.

This is what I hope she heard, though it isn't quite what I said. If I had said all that I probably would have freaked her out with my sudden seriousness, so I guess it's better this way.

I guess, I hope I said (or she heard) something right, because after another brief moment she nods, bobbed hair jerking, and walks back to her room.

I am nine years older than little Melissa. Sometimes I call her "Baby Girl," which once thoroughly confused the kids in the swim team I coached and she was in. Maybe it's time for, and maybe she's earned another name. But I think it should be of her choosing. 

And I think she'll be fine.   

Memes and LOTR

As a girl of very strong opinions, I sometimes find myself in passionate arguments. Recently, rather than totally stamping on the feelings of a friend, I decided to -as Elsa would say- "let it go."

But, if I had carried on an argument, I would have liked to do it entirely with internet memes.
It would have gone something like...

In conclusion...

Be good to the people who make you great.

My own words

Earlier this week an old elementary school journal appeared in my room. It was one of those flimsy paper things we did every month, a hastily colored print-out with too much large-lined paper stapled to it at the corner. The first few pages were half full almost illegible insect poems. Apparently I didn't know how to use spaces between words (either that, or I should be given partial credit for inventing the #hashtag) because sometimes I wasn't sure whether it said that moths ate "sweaters, cloth, and rugs" or "sweaters, cloth, an drugs." I finished flipping through it after only a couple of minutes, sure that every word (sandwiched together though they were) had been copied from a whiteboard. They were prescribed poems, and I'm sure that every single "journal" that month looked the same, as we wrote the words they gave us. 

But I write my own words now.   

July for Eliza

So it started with some cards, some pens, and a left-over print-out of Eliza.

And here it goes.

And it's coming along....

After I gave it to her, it sat on the couch like an altar for the dead. So I added some things to complete the effect.

Sometimes I am artistic. I am ALWAYS cheesy.